


Where the Heart Is Gone

by musamihi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Mission Fic, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After <i>Starkiller</i> is destroyed, Poe has some leave scheduled on Yavin IV - with a quick stop on the way for a little intelligence-gathering, of course.  When he and General Organa meet a contact claiming to have information vital to the Resistance's continued efforts against the scattered First Order, Poe comes away knowing less than when he started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Heart Is Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).



Their ship, chosen to fit in with their dingy surroundings, isn't a joy to land - it's not even a chore. In the filthy, tattered snow-fog that suffocates the only habitable latitudes on this rock, everything's a challenge, and not the fun kind. Poe's charged with the kind of irritation that only comes from doing the same damned mindless maneuver, over and over, by the time they're finally secured in the coffin of a landing bay they've rented for the day. But he disengages his harness - he stands up - he checks his face in the locker mirror behind the pilot's chair (four days' beard: perfect) - and he strides out into the main cabin, where General Organa is poised at the hatch like she's expecting a starting shot, and somehow, there's nothing tense about him when he snaps her a salute. "Presenting for inspection, General."

For a moment, it seems like maybe she won't even turn around. But then, after a beat, she leaves off her intense and fretful contemplation of the as-yet-unlowered boarding ramp, and casts a glance over her shoulder that couldn't possibly enunciate any more clearly: _oh, brother._ He grins. He is, as directed, profoundly shabby: clothes that have faded into no color at all, stained in all the right places with sweat and grease and little burns, thick and tightly bound against the cold that will soon meet them outside. He might have bought them right off a down-on-his-luck mechanic - except, he didn't have to. The point is, he looks like the kind of person who might need to be here, which is the only kind of person who _ever_ stops here. 

She steps up to him, pursing her lips into a flat line, her hands clasped tightly at the small of her back. His heart leaps, the way it always does when he manages - somehow - to get her to play along.

She tucks his shred of a scarf almost neatly under the dense lapel of his coat. "You're out of order, Commander." She quirks an eyebrow up at him, dry. _Are you happy?_ "Don't let it happen again."

"No, ma'am. I will not, ma'am." His broad, tilting smile is most definitely non-regulation.

She rolls her eyes. "Let's go. The sooner we can get off this iceball, the better."

Out into the frigid, metallic air of the spaceport they go, blasters not particularly carefully hidden under a few extra helpings of outerwear. He's only ever half a pace behind her. Originally, she meant to come alone, pursuing a lead offered to her and her personally regarding the whereabouts of some of the First Order's scattered top brass. But, as the rendezvous is right on the way to Poe's much-needed, highly encouraged shore leave, she assented to his offer of a ride; and, since two blasters are better than one, and he's promised to be very good and keep his mouth shut, and has taken care to point out that of the two of them, his face is on slightly (slightly) fewer bounty bulletins and fugitive notices … Well. She was reluctant, at first, to let him accompany her off the ship. But he assured her in no uncertain terms that he knew very, very well that some intelligence was still a long way above his grade. And so here they are, walking under the explosive downdraft of the spaceport's airseal, out into the surrounding covered market, where they blend in at once with the hard-bitten, cold-numbed shoppers. Together: because she trusts him.

It's hard not to think of the first time he ever put on his Resistance service uniform - not the working flight suit, but the moderately more formal drab. Its Republic naval equivalent had been blue, and with a smarter collar, too. Fastening the tunic across his breast, fussing with the way the shirt beneath folded under, he felt for the first time that he was leaving the Republic and its forces for good. It was momentous; huge, for him. It was right. And maybe it wasn't quite as snappy an ensemble, but he looked damn _sharp_ , and he knew it. On his way to review, he stopped in the empty service corridor running alongside the mess hall, and checked the angle of his belt in the reflective surface of a large, battered refrigeration unit - and then she was behind him, her hands at his waist, seizing his belt at either side and giving it a rough, businesslike adjustment of perhaps two centimeters. In the pitted, dented surface of the cooler, her reflection was warped and vague. _It doesn't get any straighter than that, Commander._ She clapped her hand on his elbow. _Out_. And she was gone, leaving him standing there, contemplating the empty space beside his own reflection, smoothing his hands down his sides where the warmth from hers had already dissipated. He turned on his heel just in time to see her small, sharp silhouette disappear into the blinding sunlight coming through the bunker doors.

That was a warm day, on D'Qar. So much has changed since then. The Republic is hobbled, if not entirely dead. The First Order is reeling, its main weapon blown to nothing. Everyone is fragmented, but nothing seems to be stopping. The fight's not over, even if it's hard to say exactly how it's going to resume. That's why they're here, tramping through this shitty town, trying to figure out where to land the next blow.

Their destination is an equally shitty tavern, of sorts, far too loud and crowded for a proper meeting. What's the point of buying secrets if someone's just going to shout them at you? But he follows her instructions, leaving her to hang back at a stool in one of the corners while he struggles upstream to the bar. This place smells like most places do where people track in ice that turns to water, and no one mops it up. "I'll have a Rhuvian fizz," he more or less screams, according to the proscribed script, "and a Gildersleeve."

The bartender gives him a truly nasty look and a dismissive wave. "I never heard of a Gildersleeve."

It doesn't take much in the way of acting chops to look affronted. "Yeah? Fine. Sure. Just an Ebla beer, then." Their contact will come up behind him and offer to pay; that's the plan. Poe can't help adding his own flourish, shouting at the man's back: "You know, you really should broaden your horizons -"

A hand lands on his shoulder. He turns his face to look - and suddenly, keeping his expression to _mildly annoyed_ is a real coup, drawing on reserves of talent he didn't even know he had.

"I'll get that for you," Agent Terex says, with about as much enthusiasm as someone about to shell out for a punch in the face. (With what little satisfaction it's possible to muster in this scenario, Poe notes that he _really_ needs to work on his performance skills.) "I've never met anyone else who drinks Gildersleeve."

Poe looks at him, trying not to stare. He can feel his jaw tightening, though, and judging by the way one of their neighbors is starting to inch to the side, his attempts not to glare daggers - lasers - gamma rays - are proving unsuccessful. "You know what," he mutters, completely off-book. "Don't worry about it. I got it." He digs into one of his many pockets, slaps his credits on the bar, and storms off, body-checking some poor unsuspecting patron on his way back to General Organa's out-of-the-way spot.

Great. _This_ fucking guy.

General Organa doesn't need more than a look at his face to know: something's not going as smoothly as hoped. "Trouble?" she asks, looking past his shoulder, as though there's any hope of seeing through the masses of drunks and skulkers.

"Our contact and I have crossed paths before," Poe tells her, more heated than perhaps he means to be. "A couple times. On Ovanis. And Megalox Beta. And -"

"Oh." She doesn't look pleased, her chin jutting out to one side, but nether, Poe thinks, does she look nearly as put-out as anyone should look upon discovering they're sharing a room with the kind of slime bag even the First Order has to hold its nose to tolerate. "Well, that's - unsurprising, I suppose. This sort of thing is his wheelhouse."

He can't deny that. Selling secrets to whichever side will give him what he wants in the moment is indeed Terex's wheelhouse. That he's here offering up the secrets of his former comrades now that they're on the run is the very definition of unsurprising. He thinks it's a damn good reason not to stick around, but he's promised to be good; to keep his mouth shut. "So what do we do now?"

"We go. There's a rendezvous in thirty minutes. I have the address. He'll be there."

"Fantastic." Poe turns to go immediately - if Terex is going to show up, Poe is damn well going to be there first. General Organa, thankfully, seems to agree. 

This means they're standing around in a closed, unheated shop stall for about twenty-five minutes, but Poe doesn't care. At least there's no wind. He's chafing his hands together, imagining knocking Terex over the back of the head and taking him back to base. It's warming. But nothing good can last: Terex slithers in by the same unlocked back entrance they used, having thoroughly recovered from the shock of finding himself face-to-face with (Poe deeply, fervently hopes) his least-favorite X-Wing pilot. His smile is politely oily, sly, a perfect smirk over perfect teeth.

"I'm surprised to find myself in such illustrious company," he says, addressing himself entirely to General Organa, though Poe is standing right beside her, resisting the urge to let his shoulder slide in front of hers. "But then, perhaps I shouldn't be, considering - well. It's an honor to meet you, Princess."

She meets his gaze, expressionless; her eyes drop to his boots, and flicker back up to his face. "I've read about you," she says, and Poe mentally runs through some of the more colorful verbiage he's applied to Terex in his mission reports. "I expected you to be shorter."

Poe barks out a laugh: _hah._ He could kiss her.

Terex is undisturbed, though, back to his usual unflappable self. "It's so nice to be able to set the record straight, isn't it. I'm glad you've come yourself. I was hoping to have someone of quality to deliver this information to. We do like to pretend otherwise, but blood counts for _so_ much."

Her face darkens - and well it might. Hearing someone like Terex make a dig at her parentage is really pretty rich. "I know _you_ don't have shit to do," Poe growls at him, edging forward, insinuating himself between the two of them, "but we don't actually have an hour to waste on your idea of small talk."

Terex's eyes travel over to him, cool, curious; and then back to General Organa, with a newly polished layer of smugness. "If you'd prefer to speak privately, Princess -"

"I would," she says, leaden, dark, cutting him off like a blast door.

"General!" Poe's aghast, whirling around to face her - but she stops him in his tracks with nothing but a look, a twist of her head and a flash of her eyes that says in no uncertain terms: _no_. He stops, mouth clamped shut, one hand on the butt of his weapon and just itching to draw it. There's more than an injunction in her face, more than the exasperation of a commander required to repeat herself. There's dread, too, and pain - sentiments not easily recognized on a woman who's been hiding them well for a lifetime. He would know. These are things he lifts from other people's faces as easily as words from a page, a language of trouble and strife that's a siren call to him - but he missed them in her, for so long. For all the time he's spent in her company, looking up to her, watching her face for signs of pleasure or disappointment, the fall of her eyelids, the curve of her lips … For all that, it still took the death of her husband to show him what shapes her anguish took. And, in stamping it on his memory, the better to spot it in the future and dispel it by whatever strength he possessed, he understood: he'd seen it a lot more often than he'd realized. Here it is, staring him in the face.

"If you don't mind, Commander," Terex says, taking obvious pleasure in sounding apologetic.

General Organa nods. And Poe marches back outside, slamming the door shut behind him, fit to be tied. He has the presence of mind to grab one of the spare airspeeder parts that line the walls, a thruster assembly about the size of a man's thigh, just so he isn't hanging around empty handed; and he refrains from pacing a ditch into the snowy, muddy ground only because he knows it would draw attention. He does a passable impression of tinkering while he imagines giving Terex a very personal introduction to a spanner. 

It doesn't take long. General Organa steps outside again after no more than a minute. Her face is more composed, but there's a shadow hanging there, a shadow he knows. He'd give anything to know what the hell's casting it. "He has what we came for," she says, flat, their code phrase that says everything's clear; no need to worry. Poe really, really would like to protest, because it's Terex, which means there's absolutely a need to worry - but she isn't even looking at him as he enters the shop again. 

Which means, when Terex winks at him and mouths _good boy_ , Poe can look him in the eye while he drops his thruster assembly right on the other man's foot. 

"Shit," he says, over Terex's hissed cursing. "Slipped. Sorry."

" _Poe_."

"Yes, ma'am. It's these gloves, ma'am."

"I'm looking forward to providing my services on a more regular basis," Terex says through grit teeth, somehow managing to smarm over the pain, "in the near future. Thank you for meeting me."

General Organa nods, heavy and sharp; and then she's gone, outside, with all the speed of something being sucked out an airlock. Poe's right behind her, hand on the door, when Terex mutters after him, really admirably recovered: "If you want a piece of advice -"

"If _you_ want a broken nose -"

"I very much doubt she has any shortage of faithful puppy dogs. I'd try another angle, if I were you." He has the balls to _wink_. "A little panache, maybe."

There's a beat. Poe finds it in himself not to clock him in the face. His own nose and cheeks are already stinging, reddened from the cold; that's good. "Sounds like I'll be seeing you around soon," he says. "I'm really starting to look forward to it."

The trek back to the ship is silent. Once they're strapped in, most of their extraneous winter gear stashed haphazardly in the lockers, and he's running through their flight plan out of here, he decides to speak up. "General," he says, low. "That guy is more trouble than he's -"

"Thank you, Commander." Her voice is hard, unyielding. He shuts up.

And really, he can't blame her. The urge to draw hard lines right now has got to be strong, after she's just let one slip a little further than she can possibly want to. He's not an idiot kid anymore, who thinks that there are no compromises one can make, no moral sacrifices, that are justified in the interests of reaching a necessary result. He knows you have to let your position erode a little, in certain places, when it means the end of the day will be brighter for everyone. And he knows how much it hurts. He's done it, here and there, and had to live with the feeling, afterward, that you've lost ground you'll never get, that your borders as a person have changed.

But _she's_ been doing it for so much longer - for another lifetime entirely. Her sacrifices are breathtaking. Her entire life has been public service; she has no family left, now, except for Luke Skywalker, wherever he is. Her home is gone forever. He wants so much to give something back to her, and not just in the way he wants to repay his parents and their entire generation, the countless men and women who fought to give him a little peace and freedom, and who now should be allowed to enjoy the fruits of their labors. No: he would like very much to give her a home. He would like to give her comfort, even if he can't give her safety. To fight _for_ her instead of with her, she who's been fighting for so, so long. He'd go down on his knees for her; he'd die for her, if it would help get her to that place.

But he feels himself very much on the outside of something, as they twist away from the spaceport and break out of orbit, as they make the jump to hyperspace. The suffering on her face has faded, but not disappeared. He needs to know what's brought it on; he can't imagine what it can be that's pulled it down on top of her now, after all that's already happened. All he can do is watch as every step they take forward seems to diminish her when by all rights this mission has been a success, and try as he might, he doesn't understand _why_.

* * *

Their return to realspace adds one more point to the glittering suspension of moons, ships, and satellite stations around Yavin. Straight ahead in the viewport, just far enough out of range, is Yavin IV, green and blue and - in his extremely well-informed opinion - perfect. She sighs, easing back into the co-pilot's chair. She's been silent since they strapped in for their arrival, centered inward in a way that doesn't invite interruption. "It hasn't changed a bit."

It's true. Poe has seen this particular sight so many times, dangling in space in the last few minutes before he's _home_ , and it's so familiar to him that these colors, green and blue and black and rust, are permanently tinged with the bittersweet ache that's wanting to be somewhere, but having just a little longer to go. He guesses she hasn't seen Yavin IV in more than thirty years. It's only been one and a half, for him (closer to two, now) - but the time stretches out differently for him, of course. This is the longest he's ever been away.

He runs the post-reversion checks more quickly than he probably should. "It almost wasn't here," he says, glancing up from the pro forma stream of systems reports to gaze for a moment at the planet's reddened shadow, the crescent it makes on the moon below. "I used to think about that a lot. You know - when I was a little kid. My mom told me that story, the Battle of Yavin, for the first time, when I was four or five. I didn't sleep for a week." Half a smile drags across his face; as though that were a ridiculous reaction to being told your homeworld had come within seconds of being reduced to an asteroid belt. "My dad found me under the kitchen table in the middle of the night with a flashlight, three days in a row." 

She says nothing. There's a dip in one eyebrow that says it all, anyway: he's taken her somewhere she doesn't want to go.

"If it hadn't been for you -"

"Not just me." She glances down at her harness, the strange intensity of her gaze falling away. 

"No. Sure. But - that's why I came, you know. To the Resistance. To you. It sounds stupid, to say these things that happen when we're little kids leave that kind of mark, but - if not that, what?" It's shaped him, that knowledge that he came so close to having a completely different life; knowing that every tree's shade, every torrential downpour, every wild, violent, blood-red sunset tumbling across the horizon is a gift born of one day, delivered to him by a living pair of hands.

She's leaning on one elbow, looking out the viewport - not at him. "You came because it was the right thing to do. Because you believe in the same things your parents did. I knew them. I know why you're here."

"Because everyone deserves a home," he replies, desperate for her to turn and see him. _"Everyone."_

He gets his wish: she straightens in her seat again, and their eyes meet in the dim, yellowed reflection cast across the viewport. Maybe it's the light - it's definitely the light - but for half a second, her eyes are shining. Her lips part just enough that he knows there's something right there, _right_ behind them, and the only thing he wants is to hear her say it. _Just ask,_ he's willing her, his face tilting slightly to one side. He'd take her home, if that's what she wanted. Alderaan is gone forever; D'Qar has been abandoned, its secret base exposed. But he would find a way. He _will_ find a way. What makes a home, anyway? It doesn't have to be a world -

She asks, the words slipping out of her too quickly, just a little raw: "Have you told your father what happened to you?" Dead silence: heavy. "After Jakku?"

"I - no." His hands grip the controls, loosen, tighten again. _What?_ He swallows, and it makes his voice tight. "And I'm not planning on it."

She nods, her gaze falling again to her hands in her lap. Nods again, as though relieved. "Good," she says, and lets herself out of her chair, and leaves the cockpit. He's left staring at the empty space beside himself shining back to him from the viewport - and beyond it, stars.

* * *

The remains of lunch are on the table in the kitchen; Kes Dameron is loading plates and glasses into the sanitizer, humming to himself. _You pick up habits like that, when you spend so much time alone,_ he explained apologetically as he was setting food out, a couple of hours ago; _I think it's probably just genetic,_ General Organa countered: _Poe's never seemed to think he needed privacy._ Stories about Commander Dameron's unwitting serenade of crowded briefing rooms, mess halls, entire squadron wings over open comms, that's the salt they've had with their meat this afternoon. And now - now, his father is just happy, Poe knows. To have him home. For however long.

Poe's on his back on the little patch of duracrete that serves them for a launchpad, no more than a couple meters from the kitchen window - well within dad's line of sight. He knows the drill. He's half underneath a swoop bike that needs a little tuning up before General Organa can take it out into the jungle. There's a place she wants to visit. 

The repair isn't supposed to be taking this long - that's why he didn't bother pulling out the awning that shields the pad from the afternoon sun, which is currently making a broiler out of the hunk of junk on top of him. When he finally slides himself out, and stands, and starts the engine (and gives it just a smallish kick for encouragement), he's half-drenched, and probably red in the face, with fingers of grease smeared across his sleeveless shirt. He fit in a shave first thing, at least, after his dad told him he looked like a woolamander - so at least that extra coat is gone. He crosses his arms over the handlebars, leaning against them from the wrong side, facing the seat. The vibration is a little strong, but the thing won't shake apart while she's riding it. He's satisfied. He's also boiling: he shoves his hand back through his hair, relishing the little relief he can find in the very, very mild breeze sweeping in behind his fingers. 

General Organa slides into the seat; her hands settle on the handlebars just beside his elbows. He looks up, keenly aware of the utter mess he's made of himself, and offsetting it with a crooked grin. "You're not winning any races with this thing."

"That's all right." She smiles - it's a smile that lingers, somehow, a little too stiff, as her eyes pass over his face. He knows his hair is sticking up. "As long as it gets me there."

"I wish you'd let me come with you." And not just because it's not a short ride, which he's already told her, and the bike's not exactly a sure bet, which she can see for herself. How many times has he been in that gloomy, empty, cavernous space, and thought of her there on the dais, high and shining and alone? He can still feel the prayers of the people that fill that temple - not the Massassi that built it, not for the Sith who wrung it out of them in blood and sweat and death, but for _his_ home, for _his_ cause. That one day, in not-so-ancient history, when the Rebellion gathered in that temple and waited in the dark to learn the fate of their cause, and his future. He'd like to be there with her, to feel that - and to fly through the jungle with her arms around his waist, too fast, just praying not to fall apart.

"Have you ever been?" She scratches at a smear of something hard and opaque on one of the gauges; it doesn't come off. Her arm brushes his.

"Me? Oh, yeah. You guys left a ton of scrap there, you know. Actually - literally. Tons." His grin brightens, his eyebrows rise a little. "Want to guess who had to haul it out?"

She snorts, her smile ticking up at one corner almost like she can't help it, and she looks at him - at his filthy shirt, at the disaster of his hair, at his smile. A softness comes over her face, uncertainty, maybe, but then it's gone. "A lot happened there." She raises her hand, runs her thumb firmly down the line of his jaw where it runs into his chin. It comes away black. "It's where I met Han," she says, watching the grease melt where she rubs it between her thumb and forefinger. "Really met him, I would say. For the first time."

"I'd like to see it with you," he says, soft but insistent, reaching out to still her hand. His fingers wrap around hers, and it's one of the only ways in which she's ever felt _small_ to him. It's strange - but he likes it. A lot.

She slips her hand from his - he lets go - and she wipes that grease onto her trousers, a long stain down across her knee. She rests her hand on his arm where it's lying across the handlebars, her smile all but gone, just a lingering warmth. "You're home, Poe. You don't know how long you'll be here. Enjoy it." She straightens in the seat and holds out her hand, a gesture with a certain residue of royal expectation; he realizes, after a moment, that she wants him to hand her the helmet lying on top of the tool set. He does so. "And go be with your father." She straps the helmet on, and its shadow falls across her face - a darkness to match the mysterious wound he can see rising to the surface again. "His son came home to him. It doesn't always happen that way."

A sharp twist of her hand and the engine revs underneath her; Poe steps back. With a deafening tear, she sweeps away over the cleared hills of his land toward the jungle, and he watches, aching to follow, until she disappears against the sun's blinding glare off the dew-sparkling canopy. In the new silence, he can hear the gentle clatter from the kitchen; his father, humming. Poe turns, slowly, to the house, and goes to take over the cleanup for him - there's no reason he should have to do it, now that his son's home. He should be resting.


End file.
